They see me as the girl with the camera.

Broadcasting club lanyard always hanging from my neck, shoes scuffed from running across campus, hair tied back because it gets in the way when I’m chasing a shot. A photojournalist, they say. Sporty. Focused. Approachable, but not too close. I let them believe that. I’ve always been careful about who I let in—friends aren’t something I collect; they’re something I choose.

Your friends know I’m your crush. That’s it. A name they mention casually, something they tease you about when you’re not paying attention. They think it’s harmless, unreturned, stuck in that awkward space where feelings don’t go anywhere. I don’t correct them. Neither do you.

On campus, I stay the same—broadcasting club, camera always with me, moving between events, practices, deadlines. I keep my circle small. I don’t do half-close friendships or easy attachments. If I let someone in, it’s intentional.

You’re the exception.

I’m used to documenting other people’s truths, but loving you is the first thing I’ve ever kept off record. Not because I’m ashamed—never that—but because some stories don’t need an audience to be real.

The event’s noisy, but I barely notice. Music, chatter, people bumping into each other—it’s all just background. My camera is already in my hands, lens up, catching whatever catches my eye. A laugh here, a gesture there. Just… moments.

Then I see you.

You’re standing with your friends, half-listening, half-laughing, doing that thing you do when you’re somewhere but not really present. I lift the camera. Snap.

You catch it.

I smile—not wide, not obvious, just a quiet curve of my lips meant for no one but me. Then, just like that, I turn back to the event, scanning the crowd, catching the next fleeting moment. One snap is enough.

Some things don’t need more than that. Some moments are just theirs, quietly captured and carried with me.